


(Un)Holy

by Just_Mad_Enough



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crowley needs a hug, Demisexual Crowley, First Time, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Mad_Enough/pseuds/Just_Mad_Enough
Summary: Crowley wants. So does Aziraphale. But they're both stubborn fools sometimes, so they're both pining, for centuries. And then there's the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and all those poor books went up in flames - but so does Crowley's denial, so it balances out, in the end.





	(Un)Holy

**Author's Note:**

> So I did a thing. I talked with my best friend about what we'd LIKE to read in a Good Omes fanfiction - and I couldn't get it out of my head, so I went ahead and wrote it.  
> I haven't tried my hand at smut in QUITE a while, so I hope it turned out okay!  
> Also, hugs thanks to the lovely FluffyGlitterPantsDragon for beta reading! You're the best *hugs*.  
> Enjoy!!

The cliché is this: One of them is an Angel of the Lord, the other is a Demon from the (literal) pits of Hell. The Angel is virtuous down to his very marrow, the only kiss he ever gave anyone was to a child’s head to comfort the crying, poor thing, and when he sees a naked body he never feels any stirrings, because he just _isn’t_ a sexual being. Now the Demon on the other hand… ohhhhh boy. He is a _Demon_ , after all. He’s lived centuries, so of course he had been in the middle – and an enthusiastic participant – of countless orgies, and his experience is so vast it might as well be all-encompassing.

Now clichés are just that for a reason – because usually they ring true.

So really, it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine Aziraphale, awkward and unsure, his blush so very visible on his fair complexion, and Crowley – showing rare patience – guiding him all the way, re-assuring him that pleasure wasn’t anything bad or to be ashamed of.

Right? Well… no. In this case, you’d be so far off your mark it’s honestly a little bit embarrassing. So just go ahead, lean back, and let me tell you how it _actually_ went down (and don’t think for a moment that pun hasn’t been fully intended):

Xoxoxoxox

He’s been acting weird, lately. They both knew it and they were both quietly ignoring it. He knew Aziraphale was giving him time to work out for himself what the problem was, but still. This was starting to be   _bothersome_.

After the End Of The World came and failed to impress, after they came out the other end with wings and skin entirely intact they, well, chickened out on the conversation they really should’ve had decades (or possibly centuries) ago. The thing is, they’ve been fine, going through the motions of friendship, exasperation and just being Aziraphale-and-Crowley. It’s been going on so long, neither of them had ever felt the strict need to make a change.

But then Crowley stumbled into a burning bookshop and ended up drunk and crying in a pub _because his best friend just died_ and it all went downhill from there.

He’d known that he’s been in _some_ sort of feeling with the Angel for a good long while. But he was still a Demon, dammit, and he would be blessed if he went and tacked that dreadfully loaded word to whatever they had.

But. Fire. No more Aziraphale. He’s had nightmares about flames and sulfur and white feathers turning to dust for days, and how was he supposed to get back to where they were supposed to be? Because Crowley was good at a lot of things but lying to himself has never been one of them.

And the Angel had been looking at him differently. Only, he couldn’t categorize in what _direction_ the difference lay.

Was he waiting for Crowley to get his act together and get back to the status quo? Did he maybe want the same thing as the Demon?

He was startled out of his musings by Aziraphale breathing out somewhat forcefully and very nearly slamming his book down. Slamming. A _book_. Crowley could only look at the poor paperback in alarm while the other stalked over to him. Looking at the book seemed very much safer as opposed to looking at his friend. A forceful, sure of himself Aziraphale had never been good for rational thinking, and he had the feeling he’d need to keep some grip on his brain right now.

But then the Angel is standing right in front of him, right between his legs (and for all the centuries Aziraphale has been berating him for _sitting like some wanton thing_ , this is the first time he actually thinks the other has a point), arms crossed and practically burning a hole into his head so pointed is his stare.

He swallows, still very much not looking up and tries for blasé.

“What crawled up your bu… I mean, that is… can I he… yes?”

He fails _miserably_. Of course he does.

_Hell’s sake, Crowley. Get your act together!_

He takes a deep breath, ready to try again when his entire vocabulary, in any language _ever_ , flies out of his head.

Aziraphale is leaning down, bringing them face to face. Aziraphale is _kissing_ him!

He gasps, and the lips pressed to his start to move, slightly, gently. Asking for permission. And no one is saying anything, there’s no sound aside from rain and wind rattling against the windows in the main room of the shop, but still there’s a ringing in his ears, and then his body just decides to go for broke, because his hands are on Aziraphale’s cheeks, keeping him there, and the Angel’s hands are on his thighs to balance himself and it’s _glorious_.

But then there’s the rumble and clash of thunder outside and Crowley blinks back to reality and he.is.so.screwed.

Aziraphale is sitting in his armchair, calm as you please, cold cocoa in one hand, book balanced on his lap, reading.

Groaning, he heaves himself up, out of his own armchair, waves in the Angel’s general direction and entirely ignores his enquiries as to where he’s going in this weather, and just walks out.

His feet lead him straight to St. James Park, because of course they do. In the end, he just shakes his head at himself and slumps down on their usual bench. It’s in the middle of the night, and with the weather as abysmal as it is, he has the whole park to himself.

He sits there, elbows on knees, head buried in his hands, and lets the rain prattle down on him. It’s nice. He hears only the white noise of the drops hitting his body and surrounding area, feels the water squishing in his shoes and that’s where he stays. His mind blanks out and the knot in his gut loosens up some.

For a while, he doesn’t think about how he _wants_. Wants to keep his best friend, and also, possibly, wants to have more. How he wants to tumble into a bed together. To fuck, or cuddle or… how he wants to make _love_. Wants, wants, wants. But he can’t _have_ all that. Aziraphale is an Angel, and while he might be perfectly alright to bend - and even break some - rules, he won’t ever go for a reenactment of the Original Sin. If he could only get all of this out of his system, everything might still be alright. He could go, find someone else to do these _things_ with. Maybe someone who looks a bit like Aziraphale. He can pretend - after all, he has his imagination. But… he has never felt the desire to lie with _anyone_ before, so he just hasn’t. Of course, he has watched others. He has been around a long time - even if circumstance _hadn’t_ led him to Gomorrah (and they had), there’s also been ancient Greece. And Rome. Also the 1970ties. He’s seen a lot of truly acrobatic things in his existence. But in the end, he always took a step back, watched, and went to have a drink, a chat or a fight with Aziraphale, and he’s been perfectly happy with that.

So why, why did he have to realize he _also_ wanted that little bit more?

And sitting there, thinking of maybe going home with someone who _wasn’t_ his Angel, he’s realizing that it won’t ever happen. He doesn’t just want to have a body. He wants Aziraphale, period. He’s not even sure his own body would be up to the occasion for anyone else. A thousand years ago, _maybe_ , though he’s not at all sure about that. Now? No dice.

He sighs heavily, and then realizes the the noise of water-on-hair-and-clothes has changed to water-on-wings. Crowley looks up and, sure enough, there is his best friend, wings out and shielding him from the downpour. His arms aren’t crossed, and he’s not standing between his legs, but he’s close - personal space hasn’t been a thing between them since they got drunk together after the mess that happened in Babylon.

“Won’t you tell me what’s eating at you? You have been… off, lately.”

And he sounds so like himself, so worried for his friend, honest and genuine, that Crowley just gives up and gives in.

He leans forward and wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s middle, burying his face in wet clothes and breathes him in.

A moment later, there’s a hand in his hair, tentatively drawing fingers through the wet strands. It’s soothing - as it is meant to be - and reassuring and he knows, in that moment, that he won’t lose his friend. He can speak his mind, he can tell him what - who - he wants, what he feels, and it will be alright. Aziraphale might or might not want the same, but he won’t ever tell him to go away.

“You went and made me think you were _gone_. And I had to think and feel and I _hated_ it, and now I can’t _un_ feel everything. And some really mean part of me chose to point out that I was ecstatic when you came back, but that it was even better when you had your own body returned to you, because I really _want_ that body.”

He had let go of Aziraphale at one point, to lean back and look into his eyes. Those eyes were wide and surprised now but… not disgusted or full of pity.

“I… I’m. Well, I…”

And oh, what a relief it was that he could still tie the Angel up in knots without even trying.

“Alright, just… to be clear. When you say _want_. Do you mean… what _do_ you mean exactly?”

It took Crowley a moment to swallow his nervousness down and to call his thoughts to order. To make a list of _what do I want_ and to prioritize. In the end, it was really very easy.

“I mean I want _you_. I’m… I haven’t ever wanted _anyone_ , because you’ve always been around and other people are _annoying_. But I want. You. And by want I mean… pretty much what one would think.”

Aziraphale looks at him as though he hasn’t seen him in decades - as though he’s taking in a new style of clothing, a different haircut. Then he takes a step back and holds out his hand. After a moment, Crowley takes it, and he’s pulled up. They stay like this for a moment, and then they start walking.

They’re still holding hands, and it’s still raining and they’re quiet, all the way back to the bookshop.

When they enter, Aziraphale pulls down the blinds and then he takes his hand again, leads him through the backroom, past cold, forgotten cups of cocoa and set-aside books, up the stairs and into his flat.

They endup in the bathroom where he gets pushed down onto the rim of the old fashioned, claw-foot-tub. Then his Angel is opening his suspenders, unbuttoning his shirt and then he’s not wearing anything aside from his trousers. He can’t even remember taking off his shoes and socks - did that happen down in the bookshop, or up here? Have they been miracle-ed off? He doesn’t know, but when Aziraphale is starting to towel-dry his hair and dabbing most of the rain from his arms and upper body he ceases to care.

“Aziraphale?”

There’s a pause in the no-nonsense movements of the other, but he only notices because he’s concentrating everything he has on him.

“I… I’m not good at being an Angel, sometimes. I never have been. I think in terms of _just_ or _unjust_ , in quid pro quo - I don’t _believe_ in presenting the other cheek -  and I enjoy and crave and want. And so when I saw you disgusted at the idea of letting children die, I fell in love, just a little bit. And when I saw you enjoying the company of humans, not thinking yourself above them, having _fun_ , I fell in lust, as well.

“It seems, in some aspects, you are _better_ at being good than I am. You said you’ve never been with anyone? That you have been content with my company alone? I can’t say the same. I wanted you, and I thought I couldn’t have you, so I went and had others. I am sorry - so, so sorry - that I hadn’t known there was another option.

But… if you still want me, you can have me, because I haven’t ever been as loyal to anyone as I have been to you, and I haven’t ever wanted anyone else, even though I took pleasure in pretending with others.”

Aziraphale had stepped back from him halfway through his speech, the towel now wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders even though the cold wouldn’t bother him at all. The Angel himself was still dripping, his curls a sogging mess on his head and his usually immaculate clothes in disarray, mud splatters dotting the white and beige fabric here and there.

And Crowley could only sit there and think about how stupid they had been.

The Demon, living celibate because he couldn’t have his Angel, and the Angel, slumming it with nameless humans because he couldn’t have his Demon. Idiots, both of them.

Crowley had to shake his head and laugh a little at that, and then he got up, closed the distance between them  and went and stole his first (ever) kiss off of a surprised Angel.

The surprise didn’t last long, and then Aziraphale deepened the kiss, nibbling on his lips, just a little.

And while Crowley had never tried anything before, he has always been a fast learner - and one learned a lot by watching others, and the rest has always just been trial and error.

He moaned into the mouth still pressed to his when cold hands skimmed over his sides and pulled him closer, and the sound he made when they were pressed together and he could feel the proof that Aziraphale wanted him didn’t have a proper name yet, and he wanted more, he wanted _everything_.

The Angel pulled him backwards, and they stumbled over his shoes (so that’s where they went!) and things got awkward for a moment - he bit into Aziraphale’s lip when he lost his balance, and he gripped a little too hard at the other’s clothes and he heard something tear but this, more than anything else, stole away the last of his insecurities. This was still them, still Aziraphale-and-Crowley. When he couldn’t get the other’s button up open because wet fabric and clumsy fingers where a truly hellish mix, their clothes disappeared altogether. He had a feeling he should feel something other than excitement - embarrassment or nervousness to name but two - but he really couldn’t find it within himself. First, he was still a Demon. Second, why should he feel anything but excitement? The man he...well, yes, _loved_ was with him and just as happy to be here, and he had wanted this for literal eons.

They were lying on their sides, facing each other, kissing, exploring - getting to know the last bits of each other they hadn’t already. Mapping their bodies as they had mapped their minds for the past centuries.

Aziraphale was slow and meticulous- as he was with everything else he did, from inventorying his books to making his tea -  in finding what brought sighs and moans, which touch made Crowley whimper and how hard he had to bite to make his eyes roll back.

At one point, he rolled them, just a bit, until the Demon was lying on his back and Aziraphale was looming over him. He leant to the side for a moment, groping for something in his nightstand and then he was back, tube of lubricant in his hand.

His pupils were blown wide with arousal, only the slightest bit of the usual color remaining - but he also looked unsure, eyes wandering between the tube and Crowley, and for a moment he was afraid that Aziraphale had changed his mind, but then he realized what the problem was.

And this was just like his Angel again: unsure of how to proceed not because he didn’t know how, but because he wasn’t absolutely sure what Crowley would prefer to happen now, and that was the most important thing for him - that the other was comfortable and got exactly what he wanted.

So Crowley smiled up at his _lover_ and did the same thing Aziraphale has been berating him for, for as long as he can remember - he spread his legs ( at least as far as the body still straddling his would permit) and made the invitation as obvious as he could.

Then, there really weren’t any more thoughts, and if the Angel felt unsure about anything else he didn’t show it; or, more likely, Crowley was too far gone to notice anything.

He heard the click of the tube being opened, and he had a moment of something not dissimilar to nerves, but then Aziraphale’s hands were on the inside of his thighs, pushing out and up, hooking Crowley’s knees over his shoulders and then there were two fingers inside of him.

He knew some people started slow, building up from barely anything at all to _way too bloody much_ , but this was perfect for them.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, to be sure. A slight burn, and exquisite stretch, but it didn’t hurt, and then it anything _but_ hurt. Aziraphale had pushed his fingers in as far as they would go, and then me made a little twisting motion, wrapped his lips around his cock and _crooked_ his fingers.

For a long moment, Crowley saw nothing but stars. When he felt as though he could breathe again, he sucked the air in greedily and let it out in a loud moan, the sound encouraging Aziraphale to keep going, to give him _more_.

He lost track of time, but somewhere between _too soon_ and _not soon enough_ , Aziraphale pulled his fingers out and his mouth away, and he felt empty and aching for more.

The Angel didn’t leave him hanging for long; get got the lube open again, stroked himself once, twice - and next time, Crowley would be doing this for him, because this was something else he wanted - to touch, to feel Aziraphale fall apart in his own hands - and then he took hold of himself and pushed his cock into Crowley.

He went slow but steady, not stopping until he bottomed out and they were both gasping for air, their foreheads pressed together and their hands tangled in the other’s.

When they started to move, they did so in perfect tandem; this might be a first time for them, but they knew the other too well in any and all other aspects of life, and this was simply one more thing to fall into place.

There was nothing hurried about what they did. They barely hurried their pace when they chased that precipice, and when they came - while not simultaneously because that surely was a myth - they shuddered and gasped, breathing the same air.

They didn’t move for long, long minutes, staying pressed together, heartbeat slowing down, bodies cooling off.

After a while, Aziraphale pulled out and Crowley scrunched up his nose over the feeling of _wet_ and _sticky_ , but then they just laid down on their sides again and stayed close, not entirely sure where one began and the other ended.

But then, why should they? The lines between Aziraphale and Crowley - between _Angel_ and _Demon_ \- had been blurred so long ago, why shouldn’t their bodies match what their heart had understood so long ago?

So that’s how they fell asleep and how they woke up, and how they lived the rest of their existence - together, never far from each other, because one couldn’t be without the other, because they were Aziraphale-and-Crowley.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

 

And so you see, sometimes clichés are such for a reason - but sometimes, some people broke the mold, because that’s how it needs to be.

Sometimes, people fled a perfect garden with perfect weather - because isn’t a little bit of rain refreshing, every now and then?

And sometimes there are Angels who aren’t perfect examples of virtue, or Demons who aren’t really all that good at being bad, and that’s what makes it all worthwhile, isn’t it?

Each person with their own mind, each sunset different from the last, and every story a new and exciting one.

 

-The End-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That's it! I hope it turned out alright, and you enjoyed reading this at least as much as I did writing it!  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
